


Hills I did not die on.

by whittler_of_words



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Guardian's Kid Lives, Mute Drifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whittler_of_words/pseuds/whittler_of_words
Summary: A child he hadn’t noticed peers out at him from a niche in the wallface, a purple hood obscuring most of their features.“You look much better awake than when you’re unconscious.”What.--In which Guardian's kid survives, red tape is ignored for the sake of retribution (divine and otherwise), and Drifter has an uncomfortable brush with the domestic life.





	Hills I did not die on.

Guardian wakes up to hands on their face, in the dark.

“The gates are locked.” A thin voice. “The key is broken. Shattered into so many pieces. She needs to find it, Gigi.”

...Guardian scoots over in bed until their back is against the wall. A tiny figure soon joins them under the covers, a tiny head tucked against their chest. Guardian says nothing; simply holds them close.

“There aren’t enough hands.” Mumbled into the blankets. “Not enough hearts strong enough to bear her weight and...pierce... purse...”

“Persevere.”

“Not like yours.”

Looking down at the face staring solemnly back up at them, Guardian feels something in their chest pang. They are so tired. No doubt their child is, too.

“Aada. Go back to sleep.” Guardian brushes a hand over their face. Already their eyes are starting to flutter closed. “I’m not going anywhere.” And then, gently, “Neither are you.”

////// + \\\\\\\\\\\

The town is small, but bright, and loud. Traveling to this place has done little to actually prepare Drifter for the degree of color and sound assaulting his senses, and even as he’d originally planned to stay only long enough to get his bearings before heading out, he’s forced to stop under a shaded awning before he’s overwhelmed completely.

City life. He hadn’t missed it.

“You look much better awake than when you’re unconscious.”

What.

A child he hadn’t noticed peers out at him from a niche in the wallface, a purple hood obscuring most of their features. They speak again before Drifter can figure out what to say.

“Are you here to people watch? This is the best spot.” They point over to where an otter woman is pulling weeds in a small garden. “Gunsmith is gonna get rejected again in a couple minutes.”

Drifter considers this for a moment. And then figures: he might as well sit.

The child accepts his company without further comment. Sure enough, it’s not long before someone in a wide-brimmed hat comes along, stopping to chat with the woman kneeling in the dirt. They’re much too far away for Drifter to make out what either of them are saying. Eventually the person in the hat turns away, badly veiled disappointment betrayed by their eyes even from across the plaza. The Gunsmith?

Drifter looks back at the child. They’re still staring at him.

“My name’s Aada,” they offer. Drifter blinks at the name; an indication that they’re an only child of drifter parents. Aada points over to the courtyard of the house Drifter had woken up in not half an hour earlier. “I live over there. Gigi said not to bother you, but they didn’t know you’re important.” They squint up at him for a moment longer. “You’re staying over for dinner.”

He has to resist the urge to openly balk. [No I’m not.]

Aada doesn’t blink at the screen of holographic text Drifter’s sprite projects. They just nod solemnly, consideringly. “Okay. You’ll stay for dinner tomorrow.”

Maybe he’s given them the wrong impression. [I appreciate the offer,] he says, climbing to his feet, [but I’m only passing through.]

Aada doesn’t say anything to that, and they don’t say anything when Drifter bows slightly and turns away. He should probably be thanking them. Or at the very least, asking them to pass on thanks to the ‘Gigi’ they mentioned for helping him, but he finds he just wants to leave more than anything else. Between his sudden introduction to the town, the even more sudden attack of his illness that had him brought here in the first place, and the overly familiar way Aada had spoken to him...

Well. ‘Unease’ is one of the words on his mind.

Under different circumstances, he might have explored a little more to see what gear he might pick up before heading out. As it is, he just picks a direction and goes with it. The guard stationed at the gate pays him little mind.

For now, he’ll take this as he does everything: one step at a time. 

//////

It doesn’t take long for Drifter’s path to steepen, riddled with cliffs and ravines almost too wide to drift over. The further north he goes, the colder it gets, until he’s treading snow and wishing his cloak came with three layers instead of two.

The hiker that stops him on his way is one of his own kind. “You’re a drifter, aren’t you?” they say. The map they pull out of their pack is made of paper. Drifter’s sprite scans it, marking the place they point to. The top of the mountain. “Library up there, might interest you. People of the mountain used to be curators. Sure you’ll find lots of interesting stuff, long as you’re careful. Ah-” They tuck the map away, breath fogging. “The head priest is at the heart of it. I’d recommend steering clear if I was you.”

Drifter nods in thanks. The library might have information on what he’s looking for; double-checking the map as he goes, he quickens his pace. It’s a long journey to the top.

He doesn’t quite get that far.

It’s not fair to say he stumbles on the vulture hermit. The sacrificial altars carved into the stone practically every other step, crusted with dry blood and more than a few skeletons, made him wonder how many secrets were hidden in the mountain’s many cracks. The hermit didn’t seem overly surprised to see him. Maybe he’d heard Drifter coming.

He tells Drifter what he knows. About the cult, led by a heretic, slaughtering their own. How deeply they’ve rooted themselves into the mountain’s core. How it’s become a place of death.

Well, Drifter thinks. That explains the altars.

He’s wandered into more than one situation blind, before, but he’s starting to think that a better understanding of what’s happening here can only help - especially if he’s going to proceed with any amount of efficiency. 

Some might call it luck that he knows just the place to go for answers, but Drifter has come to realize that coincidences like this are usually anything but.

//////

“You’re late.”

For all that they barely come up to Drifter’s waist, Aada glares at him stonily enough that he’s almost actually chagrined. It’s only the fact that he feels so strong-armed by casualty and fate in this situation that keeps him from really being sorry.

They step back from the door before Drifter can pretend to apologize. He figures that probably means he’s been forgiven well enough, and he steps over the threshold before he somehow slights the child another way. They’re at the table when he enters the next room. They have some sort of puzzle in their hands, very much not looking at him.

“Good to see you up and about.” The voice comes from the chair next to them. The drifter who nods at him is bare-faced, but the helmet set onto the table in front of them speaks volumes. “You gave us quite a scare. Glad to see you’re doing better.”

There’s a third place set at the table. The bowl there is already full of some sort of broth, and Drifter barely has to look to see that their own dinners haven’t yet been touched.

His bot spins up a screen of text as he sits. [You were very sure I would come.]

“Aada was insistent,” the drifter says. Their smile holds a tinge of apology.

“And you did,” Aada interjects. They set their puzzle aside; fold their hands in their lap. “You had to.”

“Aada,” they say. Drifter doesn’t imagine the hint of warning in their voice. But the child just huffs.

It’s been a long time since Drifter has eaten at a table with anyone else, and he’s sure there are some subtleties of conduct he’ll miss, but he at least knows enough to recognize that they’re waiting for him to eat first. The broth is good when he pulls down his mask to try it; he can’t recognize half of the vegetables that make it up, and the chunks of meat are foreign to him, but he’s not too concerned about it. Aada’s hand immediately shoots out to the plate of sliced bread in the middle of the table.

“Apologies for not staying with you until you woke up,” the other drifter says, drawing Drifter’s attention. “I hope it wasn’t too confusing to wake up in a strange place.”

[The map you left was very helpful.] Drifter doesn’t see any reason to tell them he’d been heading here to begin with. 

“Good,” they say, satisfied with his answer regardless. “I’m Guardian. And I’m sure Aada’s introduced themself, if they invited you to dinner.”

“And I introduced them to Gunsmith and Ina,” Aada says, which Drifter supposes isn’t technically a lie, if those people are who he thinks they are. They turn to him solemnly. “And Gigi says it’s rude to wear a helmet at the table.”

“He’s our guest,” Guardian corrects gently, “and he’s welcome to proceed however is most comfortable for him.”

Well, at least now Drifter knows that’s a thing.

[Just call me Drifter,] he offers, not commenting on the rest. If nothing else, it gets the last of the introductions out of the way.

“Well, Drifter. You’ve arrived at an interesting time,” Guardian starts, pointedly not asking why he would have come in the first place. This drifter is also a blueskin; they’d know he came from across the water, just like they would have. “Some of the remaining civilizations that exist outside of the city are finally starting to recover, and it’s leading to its own set of issues. You’ll have some difficulty traveling for a while.”

That catches Drifter’s interest. [I met a few others while venturing north. They told me some of the things that were happening there; I thought you might be able to shed some more light on it.]

Guardian’s expression turns contemplative. They’ve hardly touched their own food, Drifter notices. He wonders if they’re not hungry. 

“Did you see Arin and Lyle?” Aada breaks in. They’re almost finished with their dinner, and they kick their feet as they look at him. “They went to hike up north a couple days ago, but they haven’t come back yet.”

[I saw one hiker,] Drifter supplies, [dressed mostly in orange. But not two.]

“Oh,” Aada says, and their feet stop kicking.

“The northern library used to be a great attraction,” Guardian interjects. “Less so since the unrest taking place there, but the idea of an archive holding knowledge from each of the zones is still an attractive one.” Turning to Aada, Guardian gives them a reassuring look. “I’m sure one of them just stayed behind a little longer.”

[I plan on heading there myself.] Drifter takes his own slice of bread, grateful not for the first time that, as inconvenient as his inability to talk is, his sprite’s text function makes it possible for him to eat and communicate simultaneously. _Multitasking._ [I’m hoping to find information, but I don’t think it wise to jump headfirst into a politically charged situation, unfamiliar with it as I am.] He nods his head in Guardian’s direction. [Not when there are friendly locals willing to help.]

The laugh that Guardian lets out brings a quirk to Drifter’s lips; glad to see they caught on to the joke. How trivial and amusing is it, to be a drifter, and find yourself referred to as “one of the locals”? Aada, mouth full, looks between them like they’re not sure they even want to be in on it.

“Help I can,” they say, a note of humor still in their voice. “There are actually a few vultures in town who took refuge here, after the power change and their opposition to it put them in danger. You could probably speak to them directly if you wish.” 

Drifter just motions a hand toward Guardian in assent. This works well enough for him.

They lean back a little in their chair, looking to the other side of the table. “Aada, you speak with Dazni more than I do. Has he mentioned anything new?”

The child looks almost startled to be brought into the conversation. But their expression quickly turns into one of thought. “I was telling him it was weird that it happened so sudden,” they start. “I remember before the new priest overthrew everything, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. No...gossip, or talk about someone wanting to take over. He said it was probably that way on purpose. It would’ve been bad for the new guy if word of unrest got to the big mister in the east.”

Drifter blinks. [Big mister?]

“He’s in charge of the frogs,” Aada supplies.

“Dazni is right,” Guardian mutters, brows furrowed. They look towards Drifter again. “He used to work in the library nurseries, before he fled with what he could carry,” they start, and Drifter is finally able to connect the name with the hermit he met in the mountains. “To be brief, the frog’s Emperor became infected with a vicious illness, and the vultures offered aid in the hyperlight they cultivated from the mountain’s core. There was hope that flame born from it could burn away the rot.” The distaste creeping into their voice speaks volumes of their opinion on the matter. Drifter can’t help but agree. To think that anything made from the pink fluid would bring healing is outright foolishness.

[With leadership in the north changed, that would put that agreement at risk,] Drifter hazards.

“Precisely.”

[Did it fall through, then?] Drifter realizes he’s already almost finished with his meal. It was good. [From what I’ve heard of the priest, they don’t seem to be one interested in upholding one-sided bargains.]

“They’re not,” Guardian says. The grim tone of their voice holds terrible promise. “They changed the terms to be more...lucrative, you could say. In hand with their new plans for the north. In exchange for hyperlight...” They sigh. “The frogs would hand over captured otter folk to serve as sacrifices in the new religion.”

[A slave trade,] Drifter finishes. [Despicable.]

“The otter and the frogs have always lived peacefully together. For the Emperor to be willing to stoop to such lows, he must be incredibly desperate to survive.”

[It almost suggests that this divine cure of his isn’t actually working as well as anyone hoped.] Drifter isn’t all that hungry anymore. This sort of topic isn’t typically suited to cultivate one’s appetite. [Burn the ugly away, and you still need something to take its place. There won’t be an end to this Emperor’s avarice until he’s dead.]

Guardian nods slightly, though whether in agreement or acknowledgement, Drifter couldn’t say. Maybe it doesn’t matter. “Even if it were working, it wouldn’t help much with the state of things surrounding this city. I doubt relations in the east would ever be the same again, and not to mention the trouble in the north, the west has been largely impassible ever since the calamity.”

[The south?]

A troubled expression settles on Guardian’s face. They say nothing for a few moments. Drifter doesn’t interrupt their thoughts. 

“Was hit the hardest,” they finally say, and it takes a few embarrassing seconds for Drifter to understand that they’re referring to the calamity again. “The people who are still there struggle to survive. I try not to linger there.”

It doesn’t take long for Drifter to consider this. He’d been aware that things here would likely be complicated, but having a better idea of what exactly will make the going more difficult for him only ever makes it better in the same way it makes it worse. Not wandering into things blindly is great. Politics and cultural red tape? Not so much.

(He’d been aware that things here would be complicated, but considering the entity that guided him, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been expecting worse.)

Guardian doesn’t let the short silence stretch out any longer. “Whatever the case, it all serves as a good enough example for the sort of greeting you could expect far north. The trek to the library will be dangerous, and getting inside even moreso; they don’t take kindly to outsiders anymore.”

[I would suspect as much. Even so, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.]

The other drifter doesn’t seem surprised by the answer. Drifter would be more taken aback if they were. Guardian pauses, shifting forward so that their elbows are leaning on the table. “If I may ask. What is it you’re looking for?”

There’s several moments where Drifter wonders if he should tell the truth. Weighs his options, and decides that the possibility of Guardian knowing something else that may help outweighs whatever reaction they might have to Drifter’s particular affliction, if they can connect the dots. The screen is blank until he slips his mask back up. [A cure of my own.]

“You won’t find it there.”

Aada had been silent for so long that Drifter almost forgot they were there. They’re not looking at him, instead considering their fidgeting hands next to their plate, between glances at his sprite. 

“You already know where you need to look. If you could just piece it all back together, none of this would even matter anymore. She already told you that.”

[What?] Drifter says.

“Have you ever wondered if you’re not running away from something, but towards something instead?”

Drifter’s eyes narrow so fast that it nearly sends a cramp up his cheek. [What are you talking about?]

When they finally look at him, something in their eyes makes Drifter still. “You will reach the four corners and take back what’s hers. You will descend into the beneath and gouge out what isn’t. You will because you have to, or nothing will change, and we’ll all drown in someone else’s mistakes.”

“Aada.”

“It’s true!” The words leave their mouth in a rush, and the strange look in their eyes is replaced by something closer to indignation as they stop looking at Drifter and turn instead towards their parent. “I’m not lying! You say things about- about rot, like nothing can be done about it, except you’re not looking for the answer to a question you haven’t even tried to ask. Or- anything!”

“I never said you were lying,” Guardian says, “but--”

There’s a harsh sound from their chair scraping across the floor as they stand. The sudden tense atmosphere is making the hair on the back of Drifter’s neck stand on end, and he nearly doesn’t stop himself from reaching for his holster as Aada raises their hands in a sharp gesture.

“You don’t understand! You say you do and then waste time talking about things that don’t matter and leave others to suffer through what you’re too scared to stop, and when they all die it’ll be--”

“Addy!”

The name cuts Aada short. Their hands still move in front of them, grasping for something that isn’t there, or maybe just unable to stay still, but the expression on their face remains unreadable in a way that has nothing to do with being blank.

“...I’m going outside,” they say. Their shoes stomp angrily on the way out, and Drifter imagines the sound of the door sliding shut is comparable to a slam even if it can’t actually do so. For a moment he thinks Guardian is going to go after them, but they don’t move from their seat.

What Aada said had been entirely nonsensical. Ominous phrases seemingly thrown together at random and spit back out like they should have meant something. Coming from a child, something like that could be dismissed as a game, probably, or some sort of daydream taken too far. 

But Drifter knows better than that. 

The problem isn’t just that what Aada had said had made too much sense. When they looked up at him, the light in their eyes had reflected pink.

The problem is that there are only two “she”s Aada could have meant, but Drifter doesn’t know which.

Guardian is looking at him. The crease between their eyebrows spells out concern, but that’s only a single word in a phrase that means trepidation. Drifter’s face covered, he wonders if Guardian could still tell whether or not he was able to piece anything together. 

Or if it they would ever assume anything otherwise. “I think,” they say, quiet but firm, “you should go.”

Even if Drifter had wanted to, there’s no room for argument in those words. And he really doesn’t. He came into this in the hopes of staying out of a sticky tangle of a situation, not getting dragged further into something that’s starting to look more and more like a ticking time bomb, and his sprite remains as silent as he is as he stands from his seat. He considers thanking Guardian for the dinner before he thinks better of it. It really was good.

Aada is sitting in the courtyard when Drifter steps out into it. They don’t look up at him. Their knees are pulled up to their chest, trying to sniffle quietly and failing pretty badly at it. Hooded cloak covering their features in the dark, they look like nothing more than a child weeping in the grass, and Drifter wonders if he should be fooled. If there’s anything to really be fooled _by._

His fingers itch for his sword, even as he resists.

It’s a wonder Guardian didn’t insist on walking Drifter out themself. Likely they know something he doesn’t, when it comes to assurances of Aada’s safety.

“It’s not a cure.” The shaky voice stops Drifter mid-step. He doesn’t turn. Aada takes another moment to speak, and Drifter can practically hear them trying to force something like confidence into their words. “It’s panacea.”

As he leaves, he feels watched in a way that has nothing to do with Aada’s eyes on his back.

//////

He kills the Hierophant out of frustration more than anything else.

Drifter has always had little patience for the power hungry, and even less for tyrants; finally slashing his sword across the first false prophet and then straight through the second feels worth the near dozen times he had almost died in the skirmish. 

It’s most definitely worth it when he comes face to face with the ancient pillar set under the stone, the light within it singing; calling his name; cursing it too. He tastes death on his throat. Drinks it, for a solid minute, until he’s finally able to break out from the pulsing in his ears. 

He thinks he might have made a mistake in activating the contraption, but he chose to keep going even after Judgement made sure to let him know she was aware of his transgressions.

(Each module in his hands had felt like a triumph, but the fourth had felt like a conviction, burning his palms even through his gloves until he’d finished coughing up blood and phlegm the same bright pink as the node that didn’t exist anywhere now but inside him. Four corners -- four points -- four chances to turn the other way. Something in him was changing. Maybe the vision of her tearing up his insides and grinding him into paste wasn’t as hallucinatory as he’d hoped.)

Hope feels a lot like being backed into a corner with nowhere to go but forward, and in that way it’s nearly indistinguishable from fear.

Drifter nearly turns around and walks back out when he sees Aada sitting between the shelves in the Apothecary. But he came for something, and the child hardly acknowledges his presence aside from an initial glance in his direction, so he trudges forward in kind. He finally has enough currency to purchase a healthpack booster he’d seen here last time. He thinks of how narrowly he’d scraped by in the north, not a single restorative to his name after the fight, and knows he’ll need as many advantages as he can afford, in this place.

He doesn’t know what makes him pause on the way out. When the sudden stop of his footsteps finally makes Aada look up at him, he realizes he’s expected to say something. He doesn’t know what. Aada waits.

[Is she satisfied?]

There’s a book in Aada’s hands. Drifter has the time to see a diagram of some sort of flora on the page before Aada traces it with a finger, idly. Their eyes never leave him. “Gigi says I need to be careful around you.”

Unsurprising. If not a little amusing. Or just sobering. [What else do they say?]

“That people can do bad things when they see things they don’t understand.” Their voice becomes quiet. “Or when they’re scared.”

[Your Gigi is right. You shl flkfjrfhdggshhhhh.] The text flickers. Drifter grimaces; taps a claw against the side of his HUD’s shell until the visual static clears. [You should be careful, and not just around me.] 

They don’t say anything to that. Any responsible parent would have drilled that sentiment into Aada’s head a million times over by now. Likely they have nothing to say in response that they haven’t already said before.

Aada stops tracing the diagram in favor of pressing their lips into a thin, firm line. Their fingers are still on the page, digging just slightly into the print.

[Are you scared?]

The question seems to surprise them. And yet, even as their eyes widen, lower lip trembling just slightly, they tilt their head up and square their jaw in something like a challenge. “Yes,” they say, and the way they do so makes him wonder if they’re not also trying to convince themself.

[Then you have a chance.]

The statement only seems to confuse them. Drifter doesn’t explain - doesn’t want to, really. It’s something Aada will realize for themself if they live long enough. Instead of mulling it over for too long, though, they just huff.

“You’re weird,” they say. Some of the tension leaves their shoulders as they speak, like water off rock. “And not because you don’t talk.”

Something in him is amused at the blunt way they say it. The rest of him just frowns, even though they wouldn’t see it through his mask. [No, you.]

And they smile. The expression takes Drifter completely by surprise. He feels suddenly awkward, aware of the Apothecarian surreptitiously watching the exchange from the counter, though Drifter would be surprised if the old Tanuki could actually hear them. Or Aada, at least. Drifter was careful to angle his text so only Aada would be able to read it, and yet somehow he still feels seen through.

He can’t idle here. He’s getting closer; he needs to keep moving.

It’s the sound of a page-turn that has him stop on his way out. Glancing back, Aada’s fingers are tracing something in the book once again, marking their place. “I don’t think she feels things the same way we do.” Aada doesn’t look up as they speak. They seem mostly absorbed in the book, less interested in him now. “But...she hasn’t given me any more dreams since before you came back. Maybe she thinks she doesn’t need to, because of what you’ve been doing. So she lets me sleep.”

Drifter doesn’t respond to that. He turns around and leaves the shop, trying to push down some feeling that Aada’s reply had dragged into his lungs as if their words were hooks on a fishing line. It’s the paranoia of every drifter to look underneath the underneath, but he knows well by now that to look too deep without reservation is to risk drowning. So he won’t. Not yet.

He will tread this water until he knows he’s caught his breath.

//////

“Either trouble has a knack for finding you, or you go looking for it.”

Even though Drifter had heard Guardian coming, their voice startles him enough that he nearly jerks before he remembers how bad an idea that is. He redirects his surprise between his teeth instead, hissing under his mask.

[Both,] he replies. [Usually.]

Nothing else is said as Guardian appraises the situation. One of Drifter’s legs is caught halfway in a crystal, forcing his hips into an uncomfortable twist as he supports the rest of his weight on the other leg. It’s hardly the worst position he could be stuck in, but he has difficulty staying standing for too long even at his best, and he can count on one hand how much more time he has until he reaches his limit -- suffice it to say, hours are not on the table.

But he’ll be damned if he cuts off his leg before he’s exhausted every other possibility first.

Guardian sighs. “There’s nothing else for it, then.” They reach for their holster, and before Drifter can so much as react, they pull up their rifle and shoot.

[SDFHSHJGFSHGJDFHGDKJ] Drifter’s sprite says. 

“Oh. Sorry, I should have warned you,” Guardian says. 

They offer Drifter a hand up where he’d fallen in the grass, having the decency to look appropriately abashed as he refuses it. His leg tingles with a pain that’s thankfully more imagined than real, but for a second he’d been so sure that Guardian had just blasted his leg off that his brain is still almost convinced. He transfers his glare from the other drifter to the crystal as it reforms, and then brushes himself off as he pulls himself into something like a kneeling position.

Adrenaline rush aside, he was standing there for a while.

“...Ah, this facet of the crystal is largely benign,” Guardian explains. “The Tanuki used to cultivate it for medical emergencies because of the crystal’s ability to suspend people and things in stasis, but now it’s mostly used to house their soldiers for warfare tactics.”

[And the ones hidden underground?] Whatever bitterness can’t be conveyed through pure text, Drifter is sure to do his best to provide through his eyes. [I’m sure those are benign too.]

“No, those will kill you,” Guardian supplies.

Drifter stands, then, or tries to. He makes it most of the way before his legs lock up on him, and he lets himself fall back on his knees before he stumbles into another crystal. Damn it.

“Are you alright?” Guardian doesn’t quite hover, but it’s close enough that Drifter’s almost tempted to try standing again out of spite. Almost.

[ ...Better than I would have been if you hadn’t come along.] The admittance is less grudging than it might have been otherwise. Sure, Drifter might have eventually found that destroying the crystal wouldn’t have also destroyed his leg, but Drifter couldn’t say whether he would’ve tried to get out of it by just slicing his leg clean off. Needless to say, this was definitely the better option of the two.

Guardian accepts the half-response, and Drifter is glad when they don’t push. “Then I’m glad I found you,” they say instead. “Though I’ll admit I’ve been looking for you anyway.”

Drifter doesn’t say anything to that. Just leans back a little, waiting for Guardian to continue.

“I wanted to apologize for the way I acted before,” Guardian says, and Drifter realizes they’re referring to the dinner. “I tend to be cautious with new people around Aada, but I’ve realized that making you leave so suddenly without any explanation was a poor reaction on my part.”

Drifter crosses his arms over his chest, considering them. [Why? It’s not any of my business.] A part of him -- a big part of him, the part of him that’s always curious -- burns for saying it, no matter how true it is. The other part of him just wants to see how Guardian will react.

“The Cell doesn’t seem to think so,” they say, and then say nothing else as they watch Drifter flinch.

That confirms it, then. He feels his lungs constrict for a moment. Ignores the feeling, until it leaves him alone.

His curiosity wins out, as always. [They’re connected to it somehow,] he ventures. 

“They became afflicted. I feared the worst.” There’s a terrible note in Guardian’s voice. One that Drifter doesn’t care to examine. “And yet, somehow they got better. I didn’t think such a thing was possible, but I didn’t want to examine such a gift too closely. Then they started coming to me with talk of...dreams. Visions.” Their gaze, wandering as it was moments before, settles on Drifter like steel on skin. “They are very taken with you.”

He shakes his head. [I have no intention of harming them.]

“I understand that now,” Guardian says. “But I didn’t know if I could trust you, before.”

Drifter understands as well. For someone to be connected to the Cell in such a way -- to have a direct line to it, all of its intentions and whims, and who knows what else -- would be to have a target painted on your back. Nevermind that the person is a child. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t care about that, as long as they had the opportunity to place the blame on someone other than themself.

People do bad things out of more than just fear.

[What changed?] Drifter asks. [Why trust me now?]

There’s nothing but the sound of the wind in the leaves as Guardian considers him for a long moment. Their features are all but obscured under their helmet - Drifter pretends he can see what he remembers of their face, thoughtful and calculating.

“You talk to them like they’re a person, and not a monster on a leash,” Guardian says. “Or at least, that’s what Aada tells me.”

He wonders what it says about him that his first instinct is to protest. He hasn’t treated them anything but cautiously; he’s not ashamed of his wariness, but he’d be hard pressed to agree that he’s said anything deserving of such a statement. Hardly ten minutes of conversation is not nearly enough for something like that.

What’s more: he wonders what it says about Aada if they truly think that’s the case.

There’s that feeling again. It clenches in his throat, stoking something hot enough there that it’s all Drifter can do to recognize it for what it is. Anger. Something tinged with indignation, maybe. It’s Aada crying in the grass; mentioning visions that keep them from sleeping like they were nothing, and this too -- he’d tried running from the feeling like he has most everything else, but much the same, it caught up with him in the end.

The Cell will claim who and what it wants, regardless of what is fair. He knows this.

And from the silence hanging heavy between them, he suspects Guardian knows just as well.

//////

There’s less triumph in killing the General. Not that it hadn’t been hard. Definitely not that the Tanuki hadn’t deserved it. It’s just that Drifter knows what it feels like to be trapped, with nowhere to go but through. He slices the warrior in half, his insides compacted with crystal, and thinks: hubris is a bitch.

When he’d killed the Hierophant, he’d known it was as necessary as it was beneficial to the people here, but--

He wonders if there’s any purpose to the General’s death outside of the fact that he’d tried to kill Drifter first.

Having picked up some new gear since he first ventured into the west, he’s eager to stash his salvaged goods somewhere safe. The rifle he picked up off the General is of exceptional quality, and he’s found a previous drifter’s cloak as well, both things he doesn’t want to lose or break until he’s had a chance to use them first. 

There’s really only one place to go with a problem like that.

The house is empty when Drifter walks in. He hangs the cloak on a rack next to a few others Guardian must have collected over the years. His sprite has already downloaded the code for the fallen drifter’s sprite carapace and sword; he lets it transfer the data into a small hub Guardian has set into the wall as he heads over to a desk, setting his new rifle on top of it.

It’s heavy. The General had wielded it like some sort of deadly toy, but a toy all the same, and Drifter knows better than to think that the recoil might not be too much for him to handle if he isn’t careful. He can fine-tune it later. Right now, he just needs to make sure he knows how it works.

He lets himself get lost in taking it apart for a while. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears footsteps coming from another part of the house.

“Howdy, stranger.”

[Not a stranger.] Drifter doesn’t look up as he carefully navigates a tweezer through some dubious looking wires to reach a piece of crystal that had somehow lodged itself inside. [We’ve met before.] Briefly, inside the sword shop, but they’d met.

“Huh. Guess so.” There’s a muted scraping sound. She must be pulling up a chair. “Watcha doin’?” 

[Working,] he says. His hands aren’t the steadiest; his grip on the crystal slips and it skitters somewhere further into the mess of wires. He pauses for a moment before trying again. [You?]

“Aada and I are having a sleepover. Want in?”

He glances back at her, then. The drifter’s wolflike helmet is nowhere to be seen, and she grins at him with a Tanuki’s mouth full of teeth.

[The way you say that makes me wonder if it’s some sort of threat.]

“No, this is just who I am as a person. It’s not like I’ll go for your eyes if you say yes.” She snorts in amusement. “Or no.”

He debates. The novelty of being invited to a sleepover would almost be enough to win him over in and of itself. It’s just that he’s hardly the best company for that sort of thing on a good day, and he’s still strung out on nerves -- nearly dying, again, killing (again, and again), enduring Judgement -- he’s exhausted.

Also, he doesn’t quite understand why he’s being invited in the first place.

[Then, no.] His hands are shaking again. He puts his tools down and recounts the pieces of the gun strewn out over the desk, putting it all back together in his head to make sure he doesn’t forget. [I can’t stay here too long.]

“Says who?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, continuing before he even has time to process the question. “But if that’s what you want, I won’t try and argue.”

Thank god, he thinks, until he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and finds Aada glaring at him from underneath a curtain covering the doorframe on the other side of the room.

“Tauntie said you’d say no,” they start.

“Because I’m smart and I’m always right,” the tauntie in question says. “It’s a heavy burden to bear.”

Aada just sticks their tongue out at her. She reciprocates the gesture gleefully. Drifter starts putting the gun back together for real this time and tries not to be too obvious about how fast he’s doing it.

Footsteps draw near. A small blue hand stretches over the desk, holding a screw; it must have fallen without Drifter realizing, and he takes it, unsure why the feeling that sparks in his chest as he does so feels almost like guilt.

“You need to stay,” Aada says, very gravely. 

He watches them for a moment. [Is that what you think, or the Cell?] 

It’s probably insensitive of him to say, but Aada doesn’t seem offended by the question, even as the other drifter huffs. “Do you want me to ask?” they say. They don’t wait for him to say no.

There’s no outward sign except for the way their eyes slip away from him, looking somewhere distant. 

“You can’t die yet because she won’t let you,” Aada says. “You only have so much blood to lose, and you’re killing yourself faster than anything else can. She’ll fill up your cracks to keep you together, but break yourself apart too much and soon enough you’ll be nothing but--”

They stop at his hand over their mouth. Aada blinks.

“Sorry,” they say, pulling his hand away. Drifter only realizes his mistake when they don’t let go, continuing to hold onto it. There’s no divinity in the depth of their eyes, but the unwarranted concern there makes him look away nonetheless. “I forget sometimes. I just don’t want you to get lost.”

“Don’t take it personally,” the Tanuki breaks in. “Addy tends to adopt strays. It runs in the family.”

“I like helping!” Aada says, flustered. They tug on his hand, and continue tugging until he looks back at them. “Please? Is there anything I can do to make you stay?”

It’s frustrating, almost. Bewildering, definitely, that they’re so insistent on caring about him when they have absolutely no reason to do so. He’s fairly sure he wishes they didn’t. He knows it’d be easier if that were the case. Maybe it’s the simple fact that they’re still a child that lets them care about strangers stumbling through their home.

He hasn’t gotten this far by taking it easy. Has pushed himself harder; further; sicker. Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he’s intimately familiar with his limits, and what it feels like to cross the hairline trigger of any one of his burnouts. Why should he stop now? Because they’ve asked him to?

It’s a solid knowing in his gut that tells him caring so much will only get them hurt.

...Then there’s the fact that he can’t say no now without looking like a grade-A piece of shit. At the very least, the look the other drifter is giving him over Aada’s shoulder tells him as much.

[I’ll stay,] he says, finally, mildly discomfited by the look of pure joy that spreads across Aada’s face at the admittance.

And then they promptly burst into tears.

[Fuck.] Drifter says. 

He thinks he hears the other drifter laugh, until they say, “Alright kiddo, come here,” and Aada obliges, freeing Drifter’s hand so they can cling to her instead.

Turning back to the gun on the desk, Drifter realizes he’s already forgotten how to put the rest of it back together.

 

He hadn’t thought that there was so much more house hidden behind the curtain, though if he’d actually stopped to compare the inner layout of the building to what could be seen from the outside, he’s sure it would have occurred to him eventually.

Guardian walks in to Aada wearing Drifter’s helmet and Alt’s cloak wrapped around their shoulders. Looking from their child, to Alt snapping photos with her bot, and then to Drifter where he’s huddled on the couch, they say, “I feel like I should be apologizing again.”

The only reason Aada hadn’t managed to steal away Drifter’s cloak along with his helmet was because there were multiple holes down one side that needed to be patched up. Biting off the end of a length of thread, he raises an eyebrow at them and says nothing.

“Nah, we’re having a great time!” Alt says. She practically skips over to Guardian’s side as they remove their helmet, nudging her bot to pull up a screen full of the pictures she’d taken. “Look at this, look.”

“Oh,” they say. They swipe through the captures, pulling a few up to look at more closely. “Okay, these are precious.”

“Gigi!” Aada runs to their parent, letting themself be scooped up. “Did you take Ina?”

Alt’s cloak wrapped around them about three times to fit right aside, Drifter’s helmet is far too big for them, half of it slipping over to fall over an eye, and Guardian is very obviously fighting a smile as they hold them up. “Yes, and her family’s doing fine. Ina’s still trying to convince them to move into Central.”

“They shouldn’t have to,” Aada says. “It’s their home.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous,” Guardian points out, only for Aada to sigh.

“I know...” They frown, leaning their head against Guardian’s shoulder, and then say, “I’m hungry. Tauntie can’t cook.”

“Tauntie isn’t allowed to cook,” Guardian corrects, shooting a pointed look in Alt’s direction. She throws her hands up guilelessly from where she’s taken up the opposite end of the couch, lounging for as much as it’s worth. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll start something up.” They turn a curious look towards Drifter, then. “Are you staying?”

Resisting the urge to sigh himself, he shrugs a shoulder absentmindedly. [We’re having a sleepover,] he explains.

“I see.” There’s obvious amusement in Guardian’s voice. Drifter manages to not make a face at them before going back to his cloak. “Will you set the table, Aada?”

“Yes!” They practically jump down from Guardian’s arms, making to run into the other room. “Oh! Here you go. Thank you for letting me borrow it!” They deposit Drifter’s helmet next to him on the couch, beaming at him before finally heading off.

Guardian retreats further into the house, presumably to remove the rest of their gear before starting to cook, leaving Drifter and Alt alone. The silence doesn’t have the chance to stretch out very long before he remembers a question that’s been in the back of his mind for a while now.

[Known them for a while?]

Alt shrugs, head hanging back against the couch as she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “I guess so. I said they tend to adopt strays, don’t they?” She laughs, the sound of it edging on a cackle. “I fell into town a year or so back. Guardian got me back on my feet. The asshole.”

Drifter can’t help but snort at that. [I think I’m starting to get what you mean.]

“About what?”

[About it running in the family.]

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “Yeah, well. I don’t know why Aada’s so taken with a crusty dude like you, but I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

Drifter frowns, even as he recognizes the friendly jab for what it is. [I’m not crusty,] he protests. [I’m dying.]

“Welcome to the club, buddy!” She pats the couch as if it was a substitute for his shoulder, and Drifter would wince at the strength she put into it if he wasn’t sure she’d pounce on even the smallest sign of weakness. 

He does look at her curiously, though, pausing for a moment between a stitch in his cloak. [Afflicted?]

“Not physically,” she says, as if that makes any sense. Though Drifter wouldn’t be one to judge -- he knows enough about Affliction to know that it rarely affects two people the same way. She sits up a little, nodding to his sprite. “And hey, since we’re asking invasive personal questions, what’s with the voice?”

[What voice?]

“Har har,” she says. “Smartass.”

Smirking, he picks up working on his cloak. [I can talk if I want to, but it almost always hurts, and I usually just don’t feel like it anyway.] He waves a hand dismissively, as if to say _what can you do._

“Huh,” she says. “Well, speaking of being quiet. The kid’s been a little _too_ quiet out there. I’m gonna make sure the Cell hasn’t kidnapped them again.”

Drifter doesn’t know what face he makes at that, and he’s not sure he wants to. [I’m sorry?]

He’s beginning to think her mouth might be permanently fixed into a smile, but there’s genuine feeling in her voice when she says, “ _Man,_ I could tell you some stories.” She does pat his shoulder when she passes him on her way out, and Drifter is grateful that she actually seems to like him.

Hands steady for once, stitches as even and sure as they’ve ever been, he patches up the last tear in his cloak and almost smiles as he ties the last knot.

.

.

.

.

(He doesn’t even realize how tired he actually was until he’s already waking up. There’s a blanket over his legs that wasn’t there before, and the room is dark. Voices carry faintly from the other room. He’s never been the best at keeping time, but he gets the feeling he wasn’t asleep for long. Dinner still, maybe.

Unhurried, unconcerned, something almost like contentment unspooling in chest, his eyes close again and he doesn’t try to fight it. It’s not often that his sleep is this dreamless.

Drifter settles further into the couch, and finally, he lets himself rest.)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been pushing this fic around for about 6 months and i finish it in like. 3 days. ain't that just the life


End file.
